


Westwood State of Mind

by mischiefmanager



Series: The Greater Fool Series [5]
Category: IT, IT (2017)
Genre: Aged Up Characters (18 years old), Blow Jobs, Humor, M/M, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-04
Updated: 2018-06-04
Packaged: 2019-05-17 23:59:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,822
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14841690
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mischiefmanager/pseuds/mischiefmanager
Summary: Essay Option 1: Describe a time in your life during which you had to make a difficult decision. What choice did you make? Do you still feel it was the right one? Explain.Well, dipshits of the college admission board, as an intelligent person with at least a modicum of common sense, I am aware that biking home from school at the speed of fucking light in the pouring rain isn’t wise, and I’ll probably spend the rest of my life in a coma if I end up eating asphalt. It’s looking more likely by the second—is it possible to hydroplane on a bike? But please consider that the circumstances in my life that have brought me to this position—which is to say, careening down Maple and praying I don’t hit the pothole I know is around here somewhere, so soaking wet you can probably see the outline of my junk through my jeans—are in fact, difficult ones. And difficult times call for desperate measures.





	Westwood State of Mind

_ Essay Option 1: Describe a time in your life during which you had to make a difficult decision. What choice did you make? Do you still feel it was the right one? Explain. _

_ Well, dipshits of the college admission board, as an intelligent person with at least a modicum of common sense, I am aware that biking home from school at the speed of fucking light in the pouring rain isn’t wise, and I’ll probably spend the rest of my life in a coma if I end up eating asphalt. It’s looking more likely by the second—is it possible to hydroplane on a bike? But please consider that the circumstances in my life that have brought me to this position—which is to say, careening down Maple and praying I don’t hit the pothole I know is around here somewhere, so soaking wet you can probably see the outline of my junk through my jeans—are in fact, difficult ones. And difficult times call for desperate measures. _

_ I’ve lost my goddamn mind, _ is the conclusion Eddie comes to. That’s what’s happened. That’s the only plausible explanation.  _ Three months after I finished mailing in all those applications and I’m still thinking in bullshit essay format. _ Well, if he does end up a paraplegic after crashing into a dumpster, at least he’ll be able to use the experience to write a slightly less shitty admissions essay for the Common App next year.

It’s also perfectly possible that Eddie is out here risking his life for jack shit. Like, the letter might not even be in his mailbox when he gets home, and then he’s going to get yelled at and grounded for nothing.

But it  _ might  _ be there. That’s enough to keep him going, even though his sneakers keep slipping off the wet pedals and every time it happens he’s like,  _ this is it, this is how I die. _

Eddie  _ knows _ he can’t be the only person left in the world stressing about college, but sometimes it feels like it. Bill got into NYU Early Decision and hasn’t had to even  _ think  _ about it since like, November; Stan’s going to Georgia; Ben is headed to University of Illinois Urbana-Champaign with Beverly; Mike’s still stuck on the farm until he can figure out what else he wants to do, and Richie is...well, Richie. Richie is kind of waiting on Eddie make a decision before he makes any real plans.  _ Will you  _ stop _ freaking the fuck out, _ Richie keeps saying.  _ So what if we end up like thirty minutes from Derry? I’ll still come with you. You're acting like living in Bangor or whatever for a few years is going to fucking kill us.  _ Not to be overdramatic, but Eddie isn’t convinced Richie won’t accidentally like, blow them up out of boredom if they don’t move somewhere that’ll keep him busy. What the fuck else is Richie going to do in Bangor? Eddie also doesn’t want to be within reasonable driving distance of Derry.

So, okay, maybe it’s not  _ that  _ bad. Eddie  _ did _ get into this one school, which is in like upstate New York. And that’s not exactly next door, but it’s still too close for comfort. Eddie really, really doesn’t want to be anywhere that is at all easily accessible to his mother. Which means anywhere she could justify just like, popping by for a weekend trip or some shit like that. Because then she would do it. Every weekend. And as long as he’s in the state of Maine, she’s going to insist he live at home.

Eddie’s mom  _ really _ wants him to live at home. Like,  _ really really. _ So much that she somehow managed—with a combination of tears and kindly-worded threats—to wrangle his college admissions experience into a situation where he applied to six New England colleges and that’s it. Two safety-ish schools (both unsettlingly close to home), and four more prestigious ones only slightly further away. Or so she thinks.

Eddie  _ actually _ did a  _ super _ sneaky thing, which he would be ashamed about if he wasn’t so fucking proud of it. He used the money she gave him to apply to Brown to apply to UCLA instead. In hindsight, he probably should’ve picked a  _ slightly _ less selective college to up his odds of getting in, but by the time he realized UCLA doesn’t accept the Common App, he was running out of time to think it through. Plus, he knows Richie won’t have trouble finding stuff to do in the middle of LA.

And now Eddie has heard back from everywhere, except “Brown.” His mother really had no problem with the idea of him applying there because she’s understandably confident that he won’t get into an Ivy League school, and the fewer schools Eddie gets into, the better chance he has of going to  _ her _ top choice: Derry Community College.

He’s been accepted to two out of the five places he’s heard back from. And he’s expecting his letter from UCLA literally any day now. Which is why he needs to fucking  _ book _ it and get home to check the mail before his mother, sitting in front of Derry High in her car, realizes he biked in the rain instead of waiting by the auditorium for her to pick him up like he’s supposed to during bad weather.

He is fucking  _ in _ for it. But if the letter from UCLA is in his mailbox and he intercepts it before his mom can get there, it’ll all be worth it. Then—if he gets in—he can quietly mail off his letter saying he  _ accepts their acceptance  _ or whatever the fuck you call an acceptance acceptance letter, before his mom knows about it. By the time she finds out (and flips the fuck out), it’ll be too late for her to do anything about it.

Or he just won’t get in and then he can shred the rejection letter, flush it down the toilet, and she’ll never even have to know he applied. Because Eddie’s not looking to have unnecessary fights. He’s only— _ hopefully _ —going to be living here for like another three months, might as well make them as drama-free as possible.

Eddie is tremendously relieved when he comes up on his driveway and his mom’s car is nowhere in sight. Still, she could come home any minute, so he wastes no time tossing his bike on the lawn and rushing over to the mailbox. His wet jeans  _ schwick _ together excruciatingly with every step and he could not be more excited to get inside and take them off, but he flings the flap open on the mailbox and shakily digs through the contents. Catalog, junk mail, junk mail, bill, catalog, manilla...wait. His hand closes around a thick packet and his heart flutters. Holding his backpack over his head, he pulls the packet out and peers down at the address, hardly daring to believe it. It’s still fucking pouring, so he can’t see very well, but...

_ Mr. Edward Kaspbrak...from the UCLA Admissions Office... _

Eddie has received, in his life, three college rejection letters. He knows what one looks like. And it  _ isn’t _ this. Even the part of Eddie’s brain that wants him to believe the worst about everything can’t talk him into worrying about what’s inside.

Just then, lights appear at the end of the street. Eddie doesn’t have time to think before ripping his sopping backpack open and shoving the packet inside, zipping it back up just as his mother pulls into the driveway and exits the car screeching about Eddie catching his death out in the rain and… and Eddie can’t even be upset because he’s going to be rid of her in less than three months, on the other side of the goddamn country. With Richie.

Eddie would normally feel absolutely stupid about it, but he’s so happy and excited he can’t even care that twenty minutes later he’s wearing...four layers? Five? An undershirt, long johns, pajamas, a sweater, a down jacket over that, a scarf, a hat, two pairs of socks, slippers and a hot water bottle on his head like a fucking Disney character. And he’s holding a mug of tea, lying in bed while his mother comes in and clucks at him, clearly delighted in doing what has always been her favorite activity: fussing over him like a baby. Eddie is literally a man. He’s eighteen. And she’s not even getting suspicious that he’s  _ yes Mommy-ing  _ her and hiding an obvious grin under the scarf. It’s hard to get all worked up about how much he hates being treated like an infant when the overall mood in the house is so cheerful.

His mom even told him he’s not going to school tomorrow and he agreed without arguing. She’s so excited to have gotten the opportunity to practically swaddle him that she’s missing obvious red flags that he might be  _ plotting against her wishes.  _ He  _ is _ going to draw the line at being rocked if she brings it up though, which is not out of the question, because Eddie is still significantly smaller than she is—both vertically and horizontally. Hopefully she won’t though. It’s been like...at least five years since she’s tried that.

It’s less fun when 10 o’clock rolls around and she hasn’t let him take off any of the layers even though he’s now in danger of death by heatstroke. Also he has done zero homework because she’s only allowed him to leave the bed to pee (which he’s had to do several times since she keeps like, waterboarding him with hot tea) and she waited outside the bathroom door each time to escort him back to bed. So it works out to be a good thing that he’s not going to school tomorrow; he can make up his Lit quiz instead of just failing it because he didn’t get a chance to finish reading the comprehension questions for  _ As I Lay Dying. _ Not that the assignment is going to help. Eddie hasn’t understood a single goddamn word of  _ As I Lay Dying _ and he’s almost a hundred pages in, so he doesn’t have high hopes for the rest of the book.

But his mom does go to sleep eventually, and Eddie peels off the layers one by one—the parka, the sweater, the pajamas—and settles back sitting on his bed in his underwear, carefully pulling the now-only-slightly-damp packet from UCLA out of his backpack. He opens it carefully because he’s sure he’s going to end up fucking framing the thing. It’s his ticket  _ out of here. _

_ Dear Mr. Kaspbrak, _

_ Congratulations! It is with great pleasure that we would like to inform you...admission to University of California at Los Angeles for the upcoming 1994 Fall Semester… _

Jesus. Eddie reads the letter twice in its entirety, holding it with trembling fingers before setting it down on the desk next to his bed. He leafs through the rest of the packet; course schedules, orientation information, dorm stuff. A bunch of the stuff reads like advertisements for Southern California. Like,  _ the sun shits glitter on you here, the whole state smells like ambrosia, you can live at Disneyland, and the ocean is made out of unicorn jizz.  _ Like fuck man, he’s already dying to move there. No need to keep tickling his balls.

He decides he’s going to type up his  _ Fuck Yes, I’m Going to Your Goddamn School  _ letter the day after tomorrow in the computer lab during lunch and send it off via the front office so his mom won’t even get a chance to hear about it until it’s all finalized. For the first time he can ever remember, Eddie wishes his dad were here, if only so he could thank him for leaving a college fund in Eddie’s name that his mom doesn’t have access to.

Eddie is carefully putting the booklets and flyers back into the envelope when there’s a knock at the window.  _ Dun dun dun dada dun dun. _

To his dismay, Richie has not bothered to put a raincoat or so much as a light sweater on, even though it’s still coming down outside. Which, when he thinks about it, is understandable considering he’s pretty sure Richie doesn’t actually own a raincoat. He does have a jacket, technically—a purple satin windbreaker that could not be less water resistant and serves no practical purpose—that he wears all the time and Eddie hates.  _ That jacket is sick as fuck and you know it,  _ Richie always insists.  _ I’m just ahead of my time.  _

_ Yeah,  _ Eddie agrees.  _ You’re from a dystopian future. You and that shirt with the worms on it, and—and your yellow shoes— _

But the windbreaker is nowhere in sight tonight. Richie shakes his curls out like a wet dog all over Eddie’s room and Eddie as he tumbles through the window and starts stripping right out of his soaked clothes.

“Hello to you too,” says Eddie, picking up Richie’s dripping shirt and wringing it out over the trash can.

“Look at  _ youuu,” _ drawls Richie, raking his eyes over Eddie’s mostly-naked body. “Ready to get down and dirty, huh?”

“No,” says Eddie, even though  _ yeah,  _ he actually is; it’s just a knee-jerk reaction to be contrary at this point. “I was just hot.”

Richie scoffs. “What do you mean  _ was?”  _ He peels off his socks. “You’re only eighteen, you’re not washed-up yet. Even though your hair is going gray.”

Eddie is about to argue that  _ no,  _ his hair is  _ not  _ going gray, and Richie knows that. Just because he found  _ one  _ gray hair a few weeks ago—a gray hair that he’s sure can be attributed to the stress of his APs last year—doesn’t mean the rest of his hair is going gray. Right?

But before Eddie can open his mouth, Richie lunges for his desk and snatches up the letter. “Wait,” he says, “what’s this?”

Eddie bites his lips, beaming and practically bouncing on the balls of his feet. He watches Richie’s dark eyes dart back and forth under his eyelashes as he reads. His lips form the words  _ Mr. Kaspbrak...Los Angeles...Fall Semester 1994…  _ He blinks once, slow, and his face splits into...god, The Smile. 

Despite having a starring role in many of Eddie’s best dreams, he’s only physically seen Richie do The Smile—this  _ very specific expression— _ once in real life. It was the moment after their first kiss—which was, at the time, ostensibly For Practice and  _ like totally no homo, bro.  _ But Richie has since admitted that it was the moment he realized it was actually  _ completely homo,  _ and (unlike Eddie who freaked out for weeks after that particular epiphany), that that was going to end up being a  _ good  _ thing. And hence The Smile…open, real, raw. It’s just so un-Richie-like, at least unlike the Richie that Richie usually pretends to be, and it screams I LOVE YOU louder than any of Richie’s Voices ever could.

Like… Eddie’s kind of surprised that the rain doesn’t just suddenly cease and that a rainbow doesn’t appear in the sky even though it’s the middle of the fucking night, because his heart swoops and Richie lets the letter drop back on the desk, looks up at Eddie and grins and grins and finally whispers,  _ “Fuck _ yes, we’re going to California!”

And Eddie doesn’t care how ridiculous he must look, he runs straight to Richie, right into his arms. He gets up on his toes and yanks Richie’s face down and kisses him, sliding his fingers up into Richie's hair and letting the droplets of rain still clinging to Richie's curls drip down his arms. This is the part where Richie would normally like...scoop him up and deposit him on the bed and Eddie's sure he's gearing up to do so. Before he can get his hands under Eddie's butt to lift him though, this like...this crazy vision suddenly pops into Eddie’s head. Of him and Richie—him and Richie just a couple months from now—in a dorm or something. Alone, door locked, not having to be ultra quiet or pretend to just be friends. No more sneaking around. It fills him up with...with... He doesn't know how to describe it. He feels fizzy, carbonated. Full of frenetic energy. Reckless.

Eddie stops kissing Richie, looks him right in the eye, and drops to his knees.

Richie snorts. “What, are you proposing? I mean, sure, yeah I—”

Eddie raises his eyebrows, and then hooks his fingers in the waistband of Richie's boxers, not breaking eye contact. Richie's voice cracks.

“Oh,” he whispers—low, hoarse. “Oh god. Oh my god. Oh my god. Jesus fuck. Holy shit. Are you—”

Eddie yanks down. “Yeah, if you'll shut the fuck up for like two seconds.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Richie grumbles, pulling his underwear over his dick, which  _ smacks _ audibly against his belly once free of the elastic. “Boss me around, you know I love it.”

Eddie tries not to laugh. Richie  _ does  _ love it. He pretends he doesn’t, he never fails to give Eddie shit for it, but Eddie knows the truth:  _ nothing  _ makes him hotter than  _ faster Richie, more Richie, don’t stop don’t stop don’t stop— _

Richie opens his mouth again, lips curling up like he's thought of something he thinks is funny  _ but is not actually funny  _ to say.

“Don't do a voice,” Eddie orders as Richie hops ungracefully out of his underwear. “Don't do  _ any  _ of them. I swear to god Richie, if I hear the British Guy right now or—or the Southern Guy or the fuckin' Wisconsin Guy? Then I'm gonna go jerk off by myself in the bathroom and tell you to go—”

“You done yapping?” Richie interrupts, reaching down and pinching Eddie's lips the way he sometimes does to his cheeks. “I thought you were planning on putting that mouth to work.” Eddie makes a face up at him. At least he tries to. It probably doesn't look very menacing, because Richie swipes his thumb along Eddie's bottom lip and then trails it down his chin to lift his face up.

“You sure you're okay doing this?” Richie asks. And Eddie can tell that he's serious—he knows how Eddie gets about germs and bodily fluids and all that shit—and that he's totally prepared to happily settle for the usual handjob if Eddie chickens out. Which Eddie probably  _ should _ be doing right about now, but he's actually never felt less like backing down. Eddie would rather die than admit this out loud, but he's been seized by a sudden, all-encompassing,  _ desperate _ desire to have Richie's dick in his mouth. God, it's a weird thing even to think, but there it is. Richie's dick. The whole package. Right in front of his face. Getting hard over just the  _ idea  _ of Eddie's sucking it off.

So yeah, he’s more than okay. He’s very sure. He's gonna do this thing. He's fucking  _ ready.  _ Pumped, even. Eddie nods decisively.

“Hell yeah, here we go,” says Richie.

Eddie’s lips are about an inch away from the tip of Richie's dick before he realizes he actually has no idea what the fuck he's doing. Richie's been blowing Eddie since like _forever_ —and Eddie’s obviously been watching him do it the whole time—but somehow Eddie's never actually put any real _thought_ into what exactly it is he's doing down there to make it feel as good as it always does.

“Waiting for a drumroll?” Richie blurts out.

Eddie huffs at him, but scoots closer until his knees are touching Richie's toes. People do this all the time, right? How does anyone ever actually know what to do the first time? He sits there for a hot second hoping instinct will kick in and take over the way it did the first time he jerked off. But nothing happens.

“You want like, a three-second tutorial?” asks Richie. Without waiting for an answer—which, by the way, and not that it matters, would have been  _ no— _ he continues. “Just like...lick around there to get it wet and then cover your teeth with your lips like this.” Richie makes a ridiculous face that Eddie would have happily gone his whole life without seeing but is now unfortunately seared into his brain forever. “And den,” Richie continues, lips still sucked into his mouth over his teeth, “go down ash far ash you cad and just...”

“Yeah—okay— _ Jesus Christ,  _ I get it,  _ I get it,”  _ Eddie snaps, because he's not sure he'll ever be attracted to Richie again if he has to watch him bob his head like a chicken while making that fucking face.

Richie makes an obnoxious, offended sound as he places a foot on either side of Eddie’s knees. “Fine, be that way. I'm just trying to help you, asshole. If you bite the tip of my dick off, I'm gonna say I told—”

“I'm shutting you up now,” Eddie says over him, and then he takes a deep breath, rocks forward, and licks right up from the bottom of Richie's dick. Like it's a goddamn popsicle.

“Oh god,” Richie whispers, fingers scrabbling at the edge of the desk behind him for support. His eyes flutter closed.

Eddie remembers the first time Richie did this to him. They'd ended up on the bed because Eddie had been absolutely  _ positive _ his knees would give out, but evidently Richie's prepared to take that risk. Admittedly, this is a whole lot sexier than Eddie’s waddling over to the bed with his pajama bottoms around his ankles was. It won’t be if Richie ends up falling on his ass though. But hey, if he thinks he can do it… 

Eddie licks his lips and presses a soft, wet kiss to the underside of Richie's dick, right under the head, sucking lightly. The taste really isn't as bad as Eddie's neurosis convinced him it would be. Maybe a little salty, but not really that much different from kissing Richie's neck or his chest.

“You're trying to fucking kill me,” Richie groans, not as quietly as Eddie would like. Eddie immediately pulls away and shushes him.

“God, you  _ always _ do that,” Richie says, barely quieter. Eddie allows the tip to slide over his lips, across to the corner of his mouth and back, then tries licking again. “You're gonna make me have like... I'm gonna start getting hard whenever you  _ shhh  _ at people during quizzes. Like that thing we learned in Psych, that dude with the bells and the dogs. Pav...”

Eddie curls a hand around Richie's bony thigh, trying to tune out the babbling.

“Pal...Parvel or Pal...fuck it. You think we could do some roleplay? Like, some sexy librarian shit where I repay you for an overdue book with—”

Eddie considers beeping him, but instead tries gently blowing warm air all over the area he just licked. Richie stops talking abruptly and exhales loudly.

_ Forget beep beep, _ Eddie thinks, and he would be smirking if his mouth wasn’t so busy.  _ This is how you  _ really _ shut him up. _

Eddie, emboldened by his success, places his lips over the head carefully and tries some suction. Above him, Richie makes a satisfying  _ mmmf  _ kind of sound, and Eddie responds by sliding further down. It’s a little nerve-wracking and disorienting to have to gauge how he’s doing without being able to see Richie’s face—which is always so expressive and easy to read that Eddie’s come to fully rely on it as a barometer—but it’s also kind of cool to just listen to his breathing and quiet gasps. Kind of cool as in...actually kind of a  _ big _ turn-on. Eddie reaches a hand down to adjust himself in his underwear. As soon as he touches it, Eddie’s dick is like,  _ hi, um, yes, what about me?  _

_ Not your turn,  _ Eddie reminds himself. But now he sort of gets why Richie came in his pants the first time he blew Eddie. Not that Eddie’s going to or anything. Come in his pants, that is. He just like...sees how someone might.

The taste isn’t as big of an issue as Eddie always anticipated. He remembers being  _ super  _ anxious about it the other way around, like when Richie first blew him. He was paranoid that Richie would think it was disgusting and then Eddie would just have to like go play on the train tracks because he  _ would not  _ have been able to handle that.

Even then he knew it was an irrational fear. Not because he secretly suspected that dicks taste great, but because Richie has put  _ much  _ grosser things in his mouth than Eddie’s dick. In fact, Richie happily eats anything edible or even non-edible if you pay him a couple dollars and tell him it’s a dare.  Eddie doubts  _ any _ dick—even one not as scrupulously cleaned as Eddie’s—could possibly taste as bad as the handful of quad grass Richie ate in junior year. There wasn’t even money involved in that one—some asshole from the football team just said  _ hey Trashmouth, eat dirt— _ and Richie’s response was to bend down, rip out a chunk of earth from beneath his feet and shove it in his mouth, without dropping eye contact with the guy. He had left with a  _ what the actual fuck,  _ and Richie had quietly picked the remaining blades of grass from between his teeth while Eddie had shrieked at him about germs and furiously muttered under his breath that  _ no way am I kissing you tonight, don’t you even think about going anywhere near my mouth…  _ Richie had still come over and cuddled him to sleep anyway, and Eddie suspects he’d given him a peck on the lips before he’d left, but Eddie had been ninety percent asleep at the time and had no proof so he couldn’t really even be mad about it.

But it turned out Eddie had gotten really worked up over nothing, which honestly could probably be the title of his biography.  _ What did you expect?  _ Richie had said with a shrug.  _ It’s just skin—it just tastes like skin. And lube. Are you done freaking out? _

It’s funny because Eddie had kind of been freaking out then. But he really isn’t now.

Setting up a rhythm isn’t as complicated as he expected. Knees planted firmly on the floor, one hand on Richie’s hip and the other wrapped around his dick, making up for what he can’t reach with his tongue. Richie has gotten pretty good at trying little tricks and twists when he does this to Eddie, but he’s got like an entire year of experience over him, and Eddie’s not confident that he’ll be able to do any fancy maneuvering without accidentally scraping Richie with his teeth. So he plans to stick to the very basics.

That doesn’t seem to matter though, because the basics are definitely working. Richie is rapidly losing his cool. There’s a muscle jumping in his thigh, the knuckles of his left hand are clenched white around the edge of the desk, and judging by the muffled sounds he’s making, he’s got his other fist between his teeth. His breathing is all over the place.

“Hnngh,” Richie whimpers, and  _ damn,  _ Eddie honestly can’t decide if he’s more proud of himself for getting into UCLA or for his apparent natural talent in dick sucking. Like, it doesn’t seem like a thing to be smug about, but he is. He’d possibly even want to brag about it, if he had someone to brag to other than Richie.

And he’s sure he looks good doing it too—like, he doesn’t have a mirror handy right now, but if he did, he’s  _ sure _ he’d look at himself and think,  _ holy shit, I’m hot.  _ Which is the weirdest thing of all, because normally when Eddie looks in the mirror it’s more like,  _ ugh, this shrimp again.  _ He feels a little bit like maybe he’s getting a tiny glimpse of what Richie sees when he looks at him. Hot. He looks hot. He, Eddie, is a hot person. Even if maybe he won’t feel that way when he looks at himself and thinks he’s too short and not manly enough and all the other  _ toos  _ and  _ nots  _ he thinks he is or isn’t. Eddie he tries to hold onto that surge of confidence as long as he can. He wants to tuck it away somewhere safe in his brain and pull it out like a shield whenever someone calls him a wimp at school.

Because for now, here in his room, he’s pretty damn sexy.

“Okay,” Richie breathes out sharply, “stop.  _ Stop.” _

Eddie does, abruptly, confused. He thought everything was going  _ especially  _ well in the last few seconds, specifically—Richie had tightened his fingers suddenly around the edge of the desk and his legs had begun to tremble violently—and before Eddie gets a chance to even overthink how he might’ve fucked it up, Richie is sliding himself out of Eddie’s mouth and into his own long fingers. He strokes himself slowly enough that Eddie can see the marks on his right hand where he’d been biting it a minute ago.

Richie grunts above him, very quietly, with his lower lip between his teeth, and then he shudders deeply and comes all over his own fingers and Eddie’s neck and chest. Eddie gapes up at him—at his flushed cheeks and heaving chest—and can’t help wishing he could frame this moment, or maybe even stop time. Like it’s gross to get all wet, as it always is, but Richie looks goddamn beautiful and Eddie is sure he does too.

And he’s hit like a sucker punch once again with how much he loves Richie. Richie might be nasty and crazy and everything most of the time, but he’s also attentive enough to think about how it would freak Eddie out if he came in his mouth (even though Richie swallows Eddie’s jizz multiple times a week) and considerate enough to stop him before it happened. Eddie has no experience like  _ at all _ with anyone else, but he’s still positive that not everyone cares like Richie does. 

Richie, breathing like an Olympic sprinter, uses what’s evidently the last of his strength to hop up onto Eddie’s desk, where he immediately leans forward and rests his elbows on his knees, scrubbing both hands over his face.

“That was amazing,” he says on an exhale. “Shit.”

He then sits up a little and runs his fingers through his hair, pushing it up off his forehead. Eddie wonders if he knows how much that makes him look like a Dr. Seuss character. Well, even more than he normally does. He leans his head against the wall, scooting his ass back along—wait. 

Eddie stops in the middle of fetching a handful of tissues from his bedside table. “Is your naked ass touching my book report right now?” he demands.

“Huh?” Richie then spreads his legs,  _ literally lifts his ball sack,  _ and peers down. “I think so?”

“Oh my god,” Eddie groans. “That is  _ so _ disgusting. Your butt is on my homework! It touched your balls! You could be dripping on it! Get the fuck off of—I have to fucking turn that in! It’s due on Monday!”

Richie scoffs. “Really?” he says, watching Eddie wipe his jizz off of his chest. “My ass on your homework is worse than my dick in your mouth? What if I farted on this—would you set it on fire and start the whole book report over?”

Eddie splutters as Richie laughs, heaves himself up off the desk, and  _ saunters _ over to where Eddie is standing. His limbs look even looser and more lanky than usual, like Eddie has sucked all the tension out of his body through his dick. It makes him like, irrationally proud. Even more so than before. No wonder Richie always looks so smug every time he does this to Eddie.

Although Richie maybe takes that a little far. He talks about his amazing swallowing skills like he’s planning on putting them on his resume.

Speaking of… Richie crowds right into Eddie’s personal space—not that Eddie really ever has any when it comes to Richie, especially when they’re alone—and hooks his forefingers into the waistband of Eddie’s underwear. He starts backing them up towards the bed.

“Alright, Lollipop Boy, lemme have a lick.” Richie sticks out his tongue and waggles his eyebrows and it has Eddie suddenly reexamining every one of his life choices that has led him to this moment.

“Lollipop Boy? Really?” Eddie winces, even though he knows perfectly well that the best way to get Richie to stop saying shit like that is to just not respond. Unfortunately, for reasons Eddie couldn’t even begin to explain if he tried, he takes the bait every. Single. Time.

“Lollipop, Lollipop, oh Lolly, lolly, loll—” Richie starts singing—badly. Eddie groans at him in frustration but allows himself to be pushed back onto the bed and straddled.

“Wow,” Richie says, grinding down on Eddie’s dick. He glances down at the sizeable tent in Eddie’s underwear. “That’s a spicy meatball.”

“Huh?” Eddie’s normally a little faster on the uptake, but the grinding really does feel good and like...he could probably just…

“Our love is like a red, red rose,” Richie says, which prompts Eddie to reach down and smack him on the leg. The  _ I’m a little thorny  _ line has been the flavor-of-the-month phrase ever since they started showing previews for  _ The Mask _ . He says it multiple times throughout the day, as well as literally every time he and Eddie get naked together, and Eddie had been hoping against hope that tonight was going to be the night they broke the streak.

“If you say _and_ _I’m a little thorny_ ,” Eddie warns as Richie wriggles Eddie out of his underwear, “I’m just going to haul off and hit you. For real this time.”

“Allllllrighty then,” says Richie, tossing Eddie’s underwear off the side of the bed and settling down between his legs.

“Okay so  _ that  _ was the last Jim Carrey reference you’re allowed to make tonight,” Eddie informs him. “And you used up your quota of Robin Williams jokes at lunch. So unless you have some new material I—”

“How’s this for new material?” says Richie, and then without any warning he swoops down and  _ takes Eddie’s whole entire dick down his throat. _

“Whoaaaaat the—” Eddie starts to say, but he doesn’t get any further because Richie immediately pulls off and turns away, gagging as quietly as possible into his hand, like he thinks he’s being really subtle about it.

“What the hell was—Why the did you do that?” Eddie demands, struggling to sit up.

“Do what?” Richie gasps, still pretending nothing is happening. He places his other hand on Eddie’s chest to keep him lying down.

“Um, try to deepthroat me?” says Eddie. “I could’ve told you that it—like,  _ obviously  _ that’s going to make you—”

“I’m fine,” Richie chokes out, waving his hand in like a  _ don’t mind me I’m just casually asphyxiating over here  _ sort of way. “I’m fine. I just thought it’d be, you know, cool.”

“If you fucking  _ throw up  _ on my  _ dick _ , that would be the  _ polar opposite _ of cool,” Eddie tells him.  _ “Do not  _ try to pull that shit again, like I can’t even  _ describe _ how much I—”

“I can keep going,” Richie rasps over him. Eddie doesn’t argue further; he knows it’s no use. Richie just coughs one more time, pats Eddie on the belly like  _ end of discussion,  _ and leans back down. Thankfully, this time he just starts off at the tip like a  _ normal blowjob  _ instead of the crazy stunt he was trying to pull earlier, and it’s seconds before things are back on track.

Eddie winds his hands automatically into Richie’s thick, wild hair. He’d been afraid to do that the first time—it seemed somehow… rude maybe?—but hadn’t been able to reach anything else. And then Richie had gone,  _ you can grab my hair, I don’t mind,  _ and so Eddie had done it that time and pretty much every time since.

It’s the same as it has been for always, Richie using his left hand to steady himself and shove his bangs out of his face every three seconds, right hand and mouth going in a steady, smooth motion that is probably synced with Eddie’s heartbeat by now. Once in awhile, Richie will look up at him, eyes impossibly bright.  _ Is this good?  _ they seem to say.

“Yeah, ‘s really good,” Eddie murmurs out loud, twisting his fingers in Richie’s hair.

It’s all comfortable and familiar, the same as it always is. But it’s also not the same, because in the back of Eddie’s mind isn’t how it  _ could  _ be, but how it  _ will  _ be. And he can imagine it  _ so  _ much better now that it’s  _ really happening _ , he and Richie doing exactly what they’re doing right now, but three thousand miles away from everything that’s suffocating them. In a private place, behind a locked door, with a rose gold sunset shining through the palm trees, filtered through his window blinds and bathing them in a summery glow.

Eddie shuts his eyes tight, and a million tiny thoughts flit through his mind like a movie montage: falling asleep naked in Richie’s arms, waking up past ten in a warm bed, sheets wrapped around them like a cocoon. Going outside into the light of morning, hand-in-hand. Eating ice cream together on a pier overlooking the ocean. Introducing Richie as  _ my boyfriend.  _ And for the first time, he doesn’t ache with longing for a foggy, distant, improbable future; just smiles to himself with anticipation. He wouldn’t dare say any of that shit out loud, but it feels safe to think it.

Just then, Richie’s left hand finds Eddie’s right, smoothly untangles it from his hair, and threads their fingers together, which makes Eddie wonder if Richie is maybe a mind reader—if maybe he imagines them the way Eddie does. And before he has time to cringe over all the cheesy, sappy shit his heart just barfed up into his brain, Richie sucks a little harder and rubs his tongue a little more firmly on the underside and then Eddie forgets whatever it was that he was about to start worrying about. It’s that perfect, light glide of Richie’s lips—almost shy of _not_ _enough_ but somehow exactly the right amount and _oh god, he’s gonna come right fucking..._

“Ri—hey, Richie,” he breathes, grasping a handful of Richie’s hair. “I’m… I’m gonna—”

Eddie arches his back and squeezes Richie’s hand and comes in deep pulses into Richie’s mouth, soft and warm and perfect like it always is. Richie just breathes once through his nose, swallows, closes his eyes, and then wiggles up Eddie’s body to snuggle.

“Fuck yeah, go Bruins,” he says, his voice hoarse, throaty and sleepy. “Think they’ll let me work as a mascot?”

“You really want to go to LA with me?” says Eddie, because it still seems too good to be true. “You want to be on  _ SNL _ , right? That’s in New York.”

“Well yeah,” says Richie, “but it’s not like I’m gonna get discovered doing standup in the subway. You gotta start somewhere  _ good _ . Like an improv group, or the Laugh Factory or something.”

“And that’s in LA?” Eddie asks.

“Yup,” Richie yawns, “and even then, it’s not like they let you be on  _ SNL _ forever. I mean like, even Mike Meyers will leave eventually.”

“And that’s where you cut in, huh?”

“You know it,” Richie tells him, sounding seconds from sleep. “And then there’s also like this part of LA,” he mumbles, “it’s in like Hollywood or something—and like half the people there are like us…”

“That sounds nice.” Eddie smiles softly, resting his forehead against Richie’s. Richie knows better than to try to kiss him after blowjobs, so he just nuzzles their noses together instead, his breathing going slow and even.

Eddie’s going to have to wake him up and kick him out before long. But he gives himself these few precious minutes to let his mind run wild with the future. Realistically, he knows Richie is probably exaggerating about this magical place in “Hollywood or something” that’s half gay. But right now, it doesn’t hurt to believe him. They could go on dates in public. Have neighbors and friends like them. Live a real adult life together. College, a job, a car. An apartment too—their own bed, their own  _ home. _

Eddie watches Richie through his eyelashes, running his hands through the drying curls. And even though it’s midnight, he swears he can almost see the dawn.

**Author's Note:**

> and that's all folks!
> 
> i don't have plans for any further installments in this series, which is why i've gone ahead and marked it as completed.
> 
> come talk to me on tumblr anytime at yallreddieforthis.tumblr.com, where i'll be accepting questions or requests for headcanons pertaining to this series!


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